


Irish Coffee Is Just Better

by jack_the_giantkiller



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jack_the_giantkiller/pseuds/jack_the_giantkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is a barista. Bobby Singer is a writer, who writes better when his favorite barista is on duty (a.k.a. the one who turns a blind eye to the whiskey Bobby laces his coffee with).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irish Coffee Is Just Better

Crowley is making the coffee shop’s first batch of fresh orange juice, when the customer he’s mentally dubbed ‘that mammoth redneck’ walks in- the first customer of the day at just after 4am, as usual. He’s already brewing the coffee, creating the man’s order- he hasn’t deviated from the order in the months he’s been Crowley’s first human contact of the day. The man, without fail, orders three shots of espresso topped off with black coffee, leaving a little room in the top for a shot of the whiskey Crowley studiously ignores, being against company policy. The man never gets drunk enough to be a problem, and if anyone can appreciate the need for a little Irish in their coffee, it’s Crowley. If he wasn’t working, he’d probably join the man. When the redneck approaches the counter, having set up in what has become his corner next to the power outlet- Crowley realizes that the man’s cheek has puffed up beyond all recognition.

“The usual?” Crowley asks, his best professional smile gone in favor of a slight frown that’d be labeled ‘concern’ on anyone else. It’d be called concern on Crowley too, except he’ll deny it, and beat you over the head with the crowbar they keep in the back room. “What happened?” It wasn’t a fight, or he’d be bruised…

The man mumbles something.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

It’s worth it for the bitchy expression the man gives him, and the slight twitch of eye muscles; Crowley tries to hide a smirk. He might be fond of the man, but Crowley tends to express his affection in ways that make most people want to punch him in the face.

Sighing, his favourite customer produces a small piece of paper and a pen from inside his jacket pocket, quickly scribbling something on it. When he hands what Crowley now realizes is a business card over, it says:

[Fucking dentists and their torture equipment. Iced today.] 

He sets about making a new cup, adjusting the man’s usual order- there’s no way to make the man’s usual coffee stronger to counteract the ice melt, so he sets a small pot of espresso in the freezer, tucking it in and amongst the ice cream in hopes of chilling it faster. In the meantime, he makes a small cup of iced coffee, lacing it with the Red Bull that “Robert”- that would take time to get used to- sometimes orders on particularly tired mornings. He draws the little winged cup and the red bull slogan “Red Bull gives you wings” on the side (his manager has wrangled a discount in exchange for free advertising), and brings it out to the corner where Robert has already set up his laptop and is typing away- writing, presumably.

Robert looks up at him in surprise, and Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “It’s on the house. Sorry about the wait, and the dentist, Robert.”

The man takes the cup, brows furrowed, and Crowley can see that he wants to say something. “Well, you did give me your business card, and my name’s on my chest- only fair. I can go back to referring to you as ‘that mammoth redneck, who comes in too fucking early in the morning’ if you prefer?”

A gruff laugh startles Crowley. Robert turns back to his computer and quickly types something on his word processor:

[ ‘Mammoth redneck?’ Would you rather I came in later? I’m up all night- this is just the earliest I can get coffee. And just… call me Bobby? No one calls me Robert.]

“I like Robert better- but, as you _are_ the customer, Bobby it is. And you _are_ a mammoth redneck. Not a bad thing. I just needed something to call you. Please don’t stop coming in so early- you’re the only interesting thing for nearly two hours- you’re my favorite customer, actually.” And where that came from he has no idea, but he regrets it the second it falls out of his mouth.

He regrets it slightly less when a shocked smile stretches across the man’s face, a genuinely pleased smile. 

[Well, you’re my favourite barista- wouldn’t keep coming if you weren’t.]

“Oh please. You come back because I don’t care what you lace your coffee with.“

[It’s a definite bonus.]

The look Bobby gives him is _definitely_ interested, if Crowley’s years of flirting experience have anything to say. Well, well. This could make mornings infinitely more interesting. Crowley smiles, and retreats to the counter, where the whine of the juicer is a vindictive elegy to the fact that he shouldn’t have left it alone so long. 

When he finally sorts out that mess, Bobby’s espresso is fully chilled and he puts it in one of the iced coffee cups, topping it off with a couple of shots of the aged scotch he keeps in his flask. Not that he can drink at work, but it simply never leaves his bag, just in case.

He takes it out to Bobby, who glances at it but doesn’t stop his furious typing. He nods at Crowley to put it down, but Crowley waits until he has Bobby’s slightly bemused attention. “I hope you don’t mind, but I added a shot of my own scotch, since I thought you might like it.” Bobby raises an eyebrow, but reaches out for the cup. Crowley smiles flirtatiously and holds the cup out- holding on to it a moment too long so that their hands touch. “Good luck on your writing, Robert.” Crowley turns and saunters away, hips swaying just enough to catch Bobby’s attention.  
Crowley has a _fine_ ass, and is liable to use it as the deadly weapon it is. When he gets back to the counter, he glances back- Robert’s eyes are glued to his ass, and he‘s blushing slightly above the beard.

Swallowing, he looks up, and is surprised to meet Crowley eyes- pleased with himself and more than a little bit predatory. Embarrassed, Robert turns back to his laptop and starts typing frantically, as though if he catches up to where he should have been the past few minutes will have never happened. Crowley grins.

He plots out his next move.

In a few hours, business has picked up, and two of his coworkers have come in to help out with the morning crush of townies on their way to work and college students on their way to class. When he looks up into the face of his next customer and sees Robert, he’s slight shocked, but takes the business card the man hands him.

[Scotch was nice, thank you. Sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression, but I’m not ~~gay~~ interested, sorry.]

Crowley looks back at him, but the other man won’t meet his eyes. He forces an understanding smile onto his face. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, I hope you’ll continue to patronize this establishment.” The words feel cold even to him, but he can’t bring himself to care. He could have sworn the man was into him, and professionalism is a mask it doesn’t take effort to fall back on.

Robert hesitates, opens his mouth, and then quietly sighs and walks out the door into the light snow.

Crowley attempts to put it out of his mind, flirting furiously with the mousy new girl until she flees to the protection of their other coworker, who drags him into the back room.

“Crowley, I don’t care how long you haven’t been laid in, or who dumped you so hard. She’s not interested, doesn’t even bat for your team, and she’s terrified she’ll lose her job if she complains. So. Go apologize and quit it, or I’ll report you for harassment.”

He sighs, and nods, running a hand through his short hair. “Didn’t mean to scare the girl. I’ll apologize, Irene.” Crowley walks out into the main cafe, finding Molly toasting a bagel. “Look, I’m sorry. I flirt, but if I’m making you uncomfortable, tell me. I shouldn’t have been so intense about it this morning.” Men were _so_ much easier. “Look, you’ve got what, an hour left in your shift? Go home. Relax, study, whatever. I’ll sign your timeout sheet when your shift’s over.” The girl was still mutely staring at him, but she looked less likely to bolt.

“Why?”

“Because I’m frustrated and you didn’t deserve it, so git, before I change my mind.”

She’s still staring.

“Someone should have told you, I’m a bit of a lech. I made you uncomfortable and frightened and I regret it and I don’t like feeling like that, so this is how I choose to make it up to you. And,” he sighs, he hates giving out praise to underlings, it goes to their heads, “Incidentally, don’t worry about your job. You’re the only trainee I don’t mind training.”

“I’ll stay.” She smiles impishly. “Irene would’ve castrated you if you’d tried anything.”

“Anything but that.” He exaggerated a shudder, but they’re both grinning. “Your bagel is burning.” He adds, before returning to the cash register.

Irene slaps his ass on the way to the ice machine. “Atta boy.”

—————

He’s closing up- _god_ he hates days when he works the all day shift- when he hears someone behind him. He turns, best professional smile on. “I’m sorry, we’re cl-“

It’s Robert. He freezes momentarily. “Ah, can I help you?”

“Been thinkin’ a bit.” The swelling’s gone down, and he’s speaking nearly normally. “Shouldn’t have been so abrupt. Wanna go get a drink?”

“That depends. Is this a date?”

“…Mm. Maybe? Not yet?”

Crowley grins to himself. His afternoon was looking up. “Alright, but you’re buying.”

Robert rolls his eyes, but agrees, and they walk side by side towards one of the town’s pubs.


End file.
